“Ok, hand it over.” I say in my normal monotone voice that I use for work, not even bothering to look up. A little hand clock is slid over to my side of the desk. “What needs fixin?” I ask, still uninterested. “I was just wondering if you could reshine it a bit.” A female voice says from somewhere above my head. I inspect the clock, even though I don’t need to. “Sure thjng. It’ll be just a minute.” I grab my materials and get to work. While i’m doing the outside, I find a little latch. Now this catches my attention. I haven’t seen one of these in years. Well, I figure my client probably wants the inside cleaned too, so I open it up. Inside, is a picture of a small boy, barely 6 years old. But the face, oh the face I recognize. Memories come flooding back into my head. The war, the blood spilled, the fighting, the starving, the running. All of my sacrifices. For the first time, I look up at the face of my client, and recognition sparks in both of our eyes. The person I thought I lost forever, my sister.